A quick, firm step startled the tranquil echoes of the square, and made this fellow glance about with the vague sense of ever-recurring alarm which poverty and distress engender in those unaccustomed to the companionship of such dismal comrades. The instant he descried the person approaching, his countenance changed. He cast down his fierce, keen eyes, and an expression of humility replaced the glare of vindictive bitterness that had previously rendered his visage anything but pleasant to look upon. This third personage of the drama was one, in appearance, worthy to take the part of hero. He was, perhaps, about thirty years old, with a noble presence, a fair and frank face, though one clouded by a strange shadow of mysterious care ever brooding. The face attracted at once, and inspired a wish to know something more of the soul looking through those bright, half-sadly smiling violet eyes as from the windows of a prison. The forlorn watcher next the iron railings left his post of stealthy observation on seeing this gentleman, and, crossing, so as to intercept him, stood in the middle of the pavement in such a way as to abruptly bar the passage. The large kindly eyes, which had been cast down, as if indifferent to all outward things, and engaged in painful introspection, were suddenly raised with a flash of displeased surprise. “Sir,” began the poor lounger deprecatingly, half-unconsciously clasping his meager hands, and speaking almost in the voice of a supplicant, “Captain Desfrayne, forgive me for daring to address you; but----” “You are a stranger to me, although you seem acquainted with my name,” the gentleman said, scanning him with a keen glance. “I don’t know that I have ever seen you before. What do you want? By your accent, you appear to be an Italian.” “I am so, captain. I did not know you were coming this way, nor did I know you were in London. I have only this moment seen you, as you turned into the square; or I--I thought--for I know you, though perhaps you may never have noticed me--I knew of old that you have a kind and tender heart, and I thought---- Sir, I am a bad hand at begging; but I am sorely, bitterly in need of help.” “Of help?” repeated Captain Desfrayne, still looking at him attentively. “Of what kind of help?” Those bright eyes saw, although he asked the question, that the man required succor in any and in every shape. “Sir, when I knew you, about three years ago, I was in the service of the Count di Venosta, at Padua, as valet.” “I knew the count well, though I have no recollection of you,” said Captain Desfrayne. “Go on.” “He died about a year and a half ago. I nursed him through his last illness, and caught the fever of which he died. I had a little money--my savings--to live on for a while; but all is gone now, and I don’t know which way to turn, or whither to look for another situation. It was with the hope of finding some friends that I came to London; I might as well be in the Great Desert.”